The Crimes of Jordan Wise

'Hold on there,' he said. 'Let's talk a little.'

'I don't think so. I've got work to do—'

'The work can wait. My name's Cutter, Fred Cutter.'

'Good for you.'

'And you're Richard Laidlaw.'

' . . . You know me?'

'I know a lot of things about you.'

'What do you want? Are you selling something?'

'Might say that.'

'Well, whatever it is, I'm not interested. I don't need anything.'

'You need what I'm selling. You just don't know it yet.'

'All right, what is it you think I need?'

'Silence,' Cutter said.

'What?'

'Richard Laidlaw's a good name,' he said, 'but I like Jordan Wise better.'

I could feel the muscles pull as my back stiffened. I went cold all over. 'You must have me mixed up with somebody else.'

'I don't think so. Not anymore.' The lopsided smile was broader.

My control had slipped for only a second or two, but that was long enough for him to see it. 'I thought I recognized you when we bumped into each other yesterday morning. I wasn't a hundred percent sure, with the beard and the long hair. Now . . . I'm sure.'

Outside my bank on Dronningens Gade, that was where I'd seen him before. We'd almost collided on the sidewalk when I walked out.

I said, 'I've never heard of anybody named Jordan Wise.'

'You're not from San Francisco, either, I suppose?'

'That's right, I'm not.'

'I used to live in Frisco myself,' Cutter said. 'Worked for an insurance company in the same building as Amthor Associates. I saw you a few times in the elevators, the lobby, remembered you when the story broke in the papers. Everybody figured you disappeared into Mexico, but no, you came down here instead. Real clever, the way you pulled off the whole deal.'

Crazy coincidence. The y factor. Three years, all the traveling in the Caribbean, to New York, Paris, Monte Carlo, London, and recognition happens right here in Charlotte Amalie.

'I've never even been to San Francisco,' I said. 'I'm from Chicago.'

'Uh-huh. Retired tool-and-die manufacturer, made a killing in the stock market, sold your business and showed up here three years ago. Out of the same blue Jordan Wise disappeared into.'

'If you know all that about me . . .'

'I know that's your cover story. I made it my business to find out.'

'You want me to prove I'm Richard Laidlaw? My passport says so. So does my driver's license.'

'Sure they do,' Cutter said. 'The way you had the embezzlement and the disappearance planned out so smooth, you had to've arranged for some pretty good false ID.'

He was leaning forward, his voice low, confidential, but I couldn't: stop myself from glancing around at the other tables. Nobody was paying any attention to us. He didn't want to be overheard any more than I did.

'Pretty good,' he said, 'but not perfect. Wouldn't stand up to a background check. And then there's fingerprints. The FBI must have yours on file.'

'If you're so sure of yourself, why come to me? Why not just go to the FBI and turn me in?'

'Well, I'll tell you, Jordan, I thought about doing that. Might be a reward or something, even after four years. But then I thought, no, why not give you a break? I admire the way you pulled off that big score of yours. Real clever, like I said.'

'Blackmail.'

'I don't like that word. Call it a business deal. You thought I was a salesman when I first sat down, okay, that's what I am. I sell silence and you're in the market. I'm happy, Richard Laidlaw stays free and happy, too. Simple.'

'How much, Cutter?'

'Well, I don't know yet. I'm not sure just what to charge.'

'How much?'

'I mean, what I have to offer is a one-of-a-kind commodity, right? I don't want to sell it too cheap. Then again, I don't want to set a price so high it puts a strain on the deal.'

'I'm not as well off as you might think,' I said. 'I've already spent a lot of what I came here with.'

'Not all that much, you haven't. I told you, I did some checking up. You'd be surprised how much you can find out about somebody in twenty-four hours, if you see the right people and ask the right questions.'

'All right. You've made your point.'

'Tell you what,' Cutter said. 'I'll give it some thought and let you know. You going to be around that boat of yours the rest of the day?'

'Yes.'

'Maybe I'll drop by later. Or else give you a call at home tonight.'

'I'll be there after six.'

'Good man.' He pushed his chair back, then leaned toward me again. 'One thing, Jordan—'

'Don't call me that. That's not my name.'

'Sure. One thing, Richard. Don't go getting any ideas about trying to run. You wouldn't get very far.'

'I won't run.'

'Just so we understand each other. If you're not on the boat when I come around, or not home when I call, I won't waste any time having a talk with the FBI.'

He stood up. 'Well, it's been a pleasure. Later.' The lopsided grin again, and he was gone.

He didn't show up at the yawl. I didn't expect him to. Old psychological ploy: once you've got somebody on the hook, let him squirm for a while—make sure he's good and cought.

I squirmed plenty at first. Panic kept rising and I had to struggle to hold it down. Once I thought, To hell with Cutter, to hell with the FBI, go straight downtown and clean out the bank account and catch the first plane out of St. Thomas, no matter what its destination. Or sail the yawl to Puerto Rico and charter a small plane or catch a commercial flight before the alarm went out. But without a careful plan and enough time to implement it, running was a fool's game. They'd catch me quick, and that kind of cought meant federal prison until I was too old to care anymore. Even if I'd had time to make a plan, where would I go and how would I establish a new identity? St. Thomas was the only place I wanted to be. Richard Laidlaw was the only man I wanted to be.

Eventually I stopped squirming. Bitter resignation set in. Pay Cutter his blood money, whatever the amount, and hope he wouldn't come back too often. What else could I do?

He didn't call that night either. I drank too much, waiting, but there was no more inclination to panic. He'd call in the morning, early—I knew that before I went to bed. The bastard was too eager for his payoff to let me squirm for long.

The phone rang at seven fifteen. I'd been up two hours by then. 'I thought it over,' he said, 'and five thousand seems like a nice round number. What do you think?'

'I can afford that,' I said.

'Sure you can. Cash, nothing larger than a hundred.'

'When and where?'

'How about I come up to your house tonight around eight o'clock? That way we can do our business in private.'

'I'll have the money waiting.'

'Good man. You know, I think we'll get along just fine.'

Five thousand dollars. Not nearly as much of a bite as I'd expected. He'd want more later—blackmailers never stop bleeding their victims—but if he limited the amounts to five thousand and spread them far enough apart, it